After
by reading
Summary: Tag for Lucifer Rising
1. Chapter 1

_After_

Tag to _Lucifer Rising._

xxxx

"He's coming." Sam's fingers twisted into the fabric of Dean's jacket.

Dean tightened his own grip on his brother. The shaft of light rising from the stone floor illuminated Sam's face and cast sharp shadows around the crypt. _OK. That can't be good._

Dean gave his brother a harder pull than he had just a moment before. _Holy crap, holy crap._ "Sam! Let's go!" With a burst of strength Dean wouldn't have bet he had in him, he jerked Sam off-balance, breaking his brother's enraptured attention on the opening starting to appear in the floor. "NOW!" he shouted.

With a start, Sam staggered to the side into Dean, finally responding to his brother's voice and touch.

Dean shoved Sam in front of him, keeping a hold of Sam even as he pushed. "Go go go!"

And Sam went.

They stumbled out of the trembling building, Dean casting frantic eyes around, looking desperately for a way out. _There._

He thrust Sam down the stairs as the earth shook, making the steps beneath their feet ripple and lurch. There was a small yellow car parked in front, and Dean herded Sam toward the passenger side. "Get it, get in," he chanted, throwing the door open and giving his brother another shove, this time toward the interior of the car.

Sam balked, but Dean wasn't going to let that keep them from getting the hell out of here. "Get in!" he practically screamed in Sam's ear, not lessening the pressure he was using to force Sam into the car.

When Sam finally buckled, practically falling into the seat, Dean slammed the door and raced around to the driver's side. He slid in, hands already under the steering column, fumbling for wires. _Come on come on come on._

"Oh God," Sam moaned next to him.

The smell registered only dimly with Dean in his desperate need to get them gone – blood and feces. Death.

The engine sparked to life. Dean threw the car into gear and jammed his foot onto the gas, tires screeching as they car roared away.

"Oh my God, oh my God," Sam was hunched in the seat next to him, one hand on his head, the other clutching the bottom half of his face. "Dean, Dean, I can't … I can't… Stop. God, please stop. I can't."

"Sam!" Dean couldn't catch his breath. And he couldn't stop. He reached over and grabbed his brother by the scruff of the neck, shaking him harder than he probably should, harder than he meant to, but. "I can't stop, man. I can't. You gotta hold it together, Sam. You gotta hold it together." The car wove erratically across the road as Dean tried to settle Sam down and keep up the speed he could only _hope_ would get them to some degree of safety.

Sam continued to shake under Dean's hand, turning ashen-faced toward his brother. His eyes looked black against his pale face, and Dean swallowed down a quick-silver flash of apprehension and fear. But when Sam blinked, wide-eyed in shock and horror, they were only dilated, the hazel of his irises reduced to almost nothing.

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Dean," he said again, eyes flicking to the back.

Dean checked the rearview mirror—nothing. He swiveled his head to look in the back seat—nothing there either. Not a warning apparently. When he looked at Sam again, Sam was marginally more under control, though his gaze shifted constantly toward the back of the car.

Dean took his hand off Sam to grab the wheel, using his left hand to roll down the window next to him. _God, the smell…_ He looked in the mirror again, a piece clicking into place. The trunk. He felt bile rise at the base of his throat, eyes going to Sam, pale and sick-looking beside him. _No. Nonononono…_ Dean forced his mind away from that thought. _No. Not right now I can't…_

He ran a shaking hand over his face. They needed to go to ground, find a place to hide, to regroup, someplace safe, where they couldn't be found… Dean felt a sudden almost hysterical desire to laugh. Or cry. Safe. From Satan. And the angels.

_God, please…_

But no. God had left the building. Dean felt a powerful and completely unexpected surge of despair. For a man who had denied God and shaken his fist at the sky in defiance more times than he could count, Dean felt suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that God in fact _didn't_ care about what was happening. That He had checked out and that they were on their own, without even a whisper of hope that there was Something – _Someone_ – bigger than he was, who had things under control. Even if Dean had never been able to see it.

And it felt like a hole, endless and dark, opening up beneath him and threatening to drag him down into it.

"Dean?" Sam's quiet question broke through, and Dean swiped angrily at his eyes.

_Suck it up, Winchester_, he thought fiercely. _It's only what you always suspected._

"What?" Dean didn't take his eyes off the road in front of them.

"Where are we going?"

Dean gave a bark of bitter laughter. "I don't know, Sam." He clenched his teeth together to keep the laughter from breaking through completely, out of control and useless. _We are so screwed._

They both jumped when Dean's phone rang.

"Get it," he said to Sam, both hands on the wheel as he negotiated the winding road.

Sam's hand dug into Dean's right jacket pocket, found what he was looking for. He looked at the display. "Bobby." He didn't answer the phone.

"Sam," Dean snapped.

"I…"

"Answer the goddamn phone!" Dean yelled at him.

With a flinch and a heavy swallow, Sam obeyed. "Hello?"

There was a pause, then "Sam?" Bobby's voice was cautious.

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Wh – Where's Dean?" The caution was tinged now with fear.

"He's here, Bobby. He's… he's driving. I…"

"You're together?" Relief. "Thank God! He disappeared right out of my living room and I've been trying to reach him and…" Bobby broke off. "What happened? Did you kill Lilith? Where are you? Are you boys OK? Wh-… "

The barrage of questions was more than Sam could handle, and he could only shake his head, eyes closed tightly, hand clutching desperately at the phone he was holding.

"Sam." Dean was holding out his hand. "Give it to me." His eyes alternated between the strip of highway in front of him and Sam's face. Sam put the phone in his brother's open palm.

"Bobby."

"Boy, you scared the crap out of me!" Bobby was yelling now, but Dean cut across him.

"Bobby! We're in serious trouble, man. We need a place to hole up. Someplace…"

"What do you mean you need a place? You get back to my place ASAP, you dumbass!"

"We can't, Bobby, we can't! You don't understand, we've…"

"Well, explain it to me," Bobby snapped. "If you killed Lilith…"

"Lilith was the 66th seal, Bobby. Killing her was the last seal, and he's out now. Lucifer, he…."

"Dear God in heaven," Bobby breathed.

Dean snorted, "Yeah, well. Evidently God's not home and the angels decided the end of the world was just what we all needed. They _wanted_ Sam to kill Lilith and break the seal. So when I tried to stop him…" He trailed off, eyes darting to Sam, who was now staring blankly into middle distance. It looked like Sam might have left the building as well. _Terrific._

Bobby sighed heavily on the other end of the line. "You've got heaven _and_ hell on your tails," he realized.

"Pretty much," Dean acknowledged. He could actually hear Bobby scratching at his beard while the older man thought.

"Well, that don't change anything. Get here as fast as you can."

"Bobby," Dean almost couldn't get the word out through the tightness in his throat. "We _can't_. We can't drag you..."

"You're not dragging me anywhere, boy. I'm already in it." Bobby's voice was rough with emotion. "You get here. I'll do what I can."

Dean cleared his throat. "Thanks, man. Bobby. Thank you."

A gusty sigh sounded in Dean's ear. "Idjits."

Dean surprised himself by laughing. "Yeah."

They disconnected.

"We're going to Bobby's."

Though Sam was motionless in the seat next to him, Dean watched as his brother _stilled_. Swallowed. "O- OK," Sam faltered.

They drove another thirty minutes in silence until Sam said softly, "Can we stop now?" He didn't look at Dean.

Dean checked the rearview mirror, though he knew there was no sign of a vehicle behind them. His eyes grazed the back of the back seat.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly, gut churning with dread. He found a place where they could pull off and not be seen by passing cars. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, Sam was out. Dean followed more slowly.

Sam stood by the trunk. "Pop it."

"Sam." _ I don't want to know. I so don't want to know._

Sam's face was almost scarily blank as he stared back at his brother. And Dean did what he'd been asked.

The expression on Sam's face shifted—grief and revulsion—when he looked into the trunk, shifted again—shame and fear—when he looked at Dean as his brother joined him.

There was a body. Not that Dean had really expected anything else. A pretty dark-headed woman dressed in blue scrubs, a gaping slash across her neck. Dean closed his eyes. Fought back a tidal wave of heart-sickness. _Sammy._

"What should we do?" Sam asked quietly, and when Dean looked at his little brother—Sam_Sammy_ wanting_needing_sorry_lost_—he wondered if this was going to be too much.

"We'll bury her," he said.

Sam nodded. "OK."

Together they lifted her gently out of the car and moved into the trees. Together they used sticks and rocks and their bare hands to dig a hole. Together they lowered her into the ground and covered her up.

When it was over they stood silently by the grave until abruptly Sam staggered away, falling to his knees and starting to vomit. Dean stayed where he was, listening vaguely to the sound of Sam's retching, feeling the ache in his arms, the sting at his finger tips. Finally he went to Sam, leaned over and put a hand on Sam's trembling back. Even in the dark Dean could see the slick blackness of what Sam had thrown up. Blood. The girl's blood.

"Come on," was all Dean said, putting a hand under Sam's elbow and raising him to his feet.

Sam stood obediently, and let Dean guide him back to the car.

When Dean got behind the wheel, he looked across at Sam sitting—shattered probably beyond repair—in the passenger seat.

_For you and dad…the things I'm willing to do or to kill…it scares me sometimes._

Reaching under the steering column, Dean got the car started again and with another glance at his brother, pulled back onto the road and headed for Bobby's.

xxxx


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

_Apparently there was more to this story than I originally thought. :) _

_xxxx_

The longer they drove, the calmer Sam felt.

And he was pretty sure that wasn't a good thing.

Although. It wasn't that Sam felt calm about what had happened—what he'd _done_—but maybe that he felt so close to the opposite of that that he'd short-circuited his brain. His very being. It seemed ridiculously inappropriate in light of the magnitude of his betrayal to say that he felt _detached_, but there it was. It wasn't _calm_ so much as _nothing_ he felt.

Sam wondered if he should try to _make_ himself feel. To think about the choiceshe'd made that had led them to this place. To consider the fact that it hadn't been who he _was_, but what he'd _done_ that had resulted in Lucifer's freedom.

But he couldn't. Even as his mind brushed up against the thought, it threatened to undo him. Because when it came right down to it, what should he feel? Horror? Terror? Rage? Remorse? Grief? Guilt? All of the above? It was too much to contemplate, to process, to….

Pressure built inside him, squeezing, expanding, engulfing. Sam couldn't get enough air into his lungs, couldn't relieve the awful ache, felt his breath come in shallow pants. _I can't, I can't…_ He shifted in his seat sharply, frantically tamping down the tidal wave of regret and wishing and… . Without realizing he'd done it, Sam turned abruptly toward Dean.

His brother didn't take his eyes off the ribbon of highway in front of him. "What?"

Sam hadn't had anything to say, had just looked to Dean because that was what he'd always done when he was lost or hurting or didn't know what to do.

Until…

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered the words again around the swell of emotion struggling to break free. He wondered how many times he'd say them before he felt like he didn't need to any more. To Dean. To the world in general.

"I know," Dean reassured him. But his brother wouldn't look at him.

And Sam swallowed down the desperation, swiveled his head slightly, no longer facing Dean. But he kept his brother's profile just in his field of vision.

His brother's face looked blank as he drove, like he wasn't thinking or feeling anything at all. But Sam knew that was an illusion. He could see the devastation as clearly as if Dean had been openly crying. And in a way that hurt more than almost anything else.

_I did this_, Sam thought wonderingly. _I chose Ruby over him. I followed her willingly into hell when he warned me over and over not to. I told him he didn't know me, that he never had, called him weak._ He felt a hot flush of shame at the memory of what he'd said under the spell of the siren, at his condescension toward Dean in the months since he'd been back. _Why is he even here?_

Sam didn't understand. After their last fight and the things they'd said to each other, Sam had believed that there would be no recovery, had known that he'd sacrificed the most important relationship—the most important person—in his life for what he'd told himself was the greater good. Dean's voicemail had only confirmed that truth, even if hearing Dean _say_ it had cut so deeply it had felt like dying.

So what did it mean that Dean had come? What did everything that had happened in the last few hours mean in light of the message Dean had left? _Freak_, he'd said_. Monster. Vampire._

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe he'd find out when they got to Bobby's. Maybe then Dean would… Sam didn't know.

"Are you going to put me in the panic room when we get to Bobby's?" Sam could hear the hopelessness in his own voice. Maybe they would lock him up, bury him there in a coffin of iron and salt. Maybe they'd make sure he was contained and then put a bullet in his brain.

"What?" Dean gave him a distracted look. He frowned. "Do you think you need to? Do you need to… detox?"

Sam blinked, thrown for a second by what sounded like underlying concern. _No, not for me; for Bobby, for himself._ "I don't know," he sighed wearily. "Ruby said I didn't need… didn't need the blood. That the … ability was in me the whole time. Maybe the… the … addiction was all in my head."

Dean took his eyes off the road long enough to give Sam another quick glance. "You didn't need it?"

"She called it a feather; called me Dumbo," Sam said vaguely, trying to distance himself from that moment of horror when he'd realized of how easily she'd manipulated him.

Dean was scowling now. "What does that mean?"

"Like Dumbo didn't need the feather to fly. He could fly without…"

"I know _that_, dumbass," Dean snapped impatiently. "What does it mean that you didn't 'need'… it?" Dean wouldn't say the word "blood." _Vampire. _

"I don't know," Sam repeated. He felt the calm, the nothing, settle back over him. "I guess that I could do what she wanted me to do the entire time, but that I needed something to make me believe I could do it."

Dean snorted. "Why couldn't she have just given you a freaking feather?" he muttered.

Any other time Sam would have left that as the rhetorical question it was. But right now he couldn't. Because Dean had asked him a question. And whatever came of it, whatever was coming, Sam was going to answer. No more evasion. No more lies. "A feather wouldn't have had the same effect as getting me to drink her blood," Sam replied. "Convincing me to cross that line, to make the choice to do something I knew was wrong… was evil…." _Monster_. "It bound me to her, made me think I'd done something significant" _important, brave, self-sacrificing_ "and that there was no going back from it." He looked at Dean. "Just handing me a feather wouldn't have done that," he concluded reasonably.

Dean stared at him, slightly slack-jawed. "Sam, are you OK?" Concern again. Worry.

"No," Sam answered in the same even tone he'd used before. He looked back out the window.

_Freak._

xxxx

"You ready?"

They'd pulled up to Bobby's house.

Sam didn't answer, but he opened the car door and got out.

Bobby came down the front steps to meet them. The older man looked like he'd aged 20 years since Sam had last seen him. His face was drawn, and the look in his eyes…

"I'm sorry," Sam said, heard the break.

"I know you are, boy," Bobby said roughly, blinking away the tears that had pooled in his eyes. He handed Sam a flask. "Drink this."

_Holy water._

Without hesitation, Sam obeyed. "It kind of tingles," he said. _No deceptions._

Bobby's eyebrows went up. "Drink again."

Sam did, draining the whole thing. He breathed out, mouth in the shape of an "o."

"Well, you're not smokin'." Bobby looked amused in spite of himself. "It still tingle?"

Sam thought about it. "A little. But not as much."

"Huh." Bobby scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "Well. Let's try the house."

None of the wards – not the old ones Sam recognized and not the new ones carved in the lintel of the front door and across the floor at the entrance – had any effect that Sam could feel. The relief in the glances Bobby and Dean exchanged told Sam that they hadn't noticed anything either. Sam hoped that was a good sign. And not a sign that that he was different in some way now, that his choices had changed him fundamentally.

_You think holy water works on something like me?_

Bobby huffed out a breath. "I've got eggs. Y'all had breakfast?"

They hadn't, so they sat in the kitchen while Bobby cooked. In the middle of the meal, Sam felt a cramp, tight and fast, in his stomach. _Was there something in the eggs? Had they…? _ He looked at Dean, focused on his plate, eating distractedly, then at Bobby, staring into his coffee.

"My stomach…" Another sharp pain elicited a gasp and caught the attention of both men.

Dean glanced quickly from Sam to Bobby. But Bobby looked just as surprised as Dean did. He was shaking his head. "I didn't…."

When the third spasm hit, Sam couldn't stop the cry, and he doubled over, tipping out of his chair.

"Sam?" Dean was out of his own chair, crouching next to his brother. But not touching. Watching, careful in a way he never had been before. Not with Sam.

On his hands and knees, without warning, Sam suddenly vomited up everything he'd just eaten and drunk. Dean shuffled back out of the way. He continued to eye Sam warily. "Sam?"

Shaking his head, Sam heaved again. "I'm sorry, Bobby," he panted over the mess he'd made. Couldn't stop another retching convulsion. "I'm sorry."

Bobby was maintaining a physical distance, too, but he still answered, "Don't worry about it, Sam."

When Sam finally quieted, Dean handed him a glass of water. Sam looked at his brother. "Holy water?"

Dean nodded, and Sam took a careful sip. Then he filled his mouth and swished it around. Before he could get up to head for the sink, a bowl appeared in front of him. He spit. Took another sip of the holy water. Then a full swallow. He felt nothing. _No tingle, no fizz_.

Exhaustedly, he eased back into a sitting position. Dean reached out to steady him, then let his hand drop. "Nothing," Sam told them hoarsely. He took another deliberate drink.

Bobby nodded. Frowned thoughtfully. "Go slow, Sam. Don't make yourself sick again."

Sam pulled his knees up and crossed his arms over them. He rested his forehead against his forearms. "Maybe it's the withdrawal," he offered tiredly.

"Maybe."

Sam was aware of his brother's presence, the warmth of him close by. But there was no reassuring touch. No distracted pat on his knee or hand resting absently on his back. Sam surprised himself with a shiver at the lack.

"I think maybe the panic room is the place for you to be, Sam," Bobby said gently. "I've protected the house the best I can, but the panic room…" He trailed off. "I think you'll be safer there."

_We'll be safer with you there_, Sam heard.

Sam looked at Dean to see his brother's reaction, but his brother was watching Bobby.

"Bobby," Dean said. It wasn't a protest. Maybe a question. Maybe….

"I don't know, son," Bobby said. "I just think until we have some better idea of what's going on, we'll all be better off if we keep Sam as contained, as protected or hidden or whatever as we can." The older man's eyes went from Dean to Sam worriedly. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said.

"It's OK," Sam intoned dully.

"Sam," Dean said now.

"Really, Dean, it's OK. I think Bobby's probably right." Sam ran a hand exhaustedly over his face. "We don't know. What I… might do. What… they might be able to see." He was so tired. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open, to think even superficially about the consequences of what had happened. Maybe if they locked him in the room downstairs he could just… stop. Cease to exist. _Die_. Maybe they'd kill him and this would be over. _Please. _

"OK," Dean agreed softly.

Silence settled over them and Sam gave a shuddering sigh. _Get up_, he thought to himself. _Get up and…._

"Come on, Sammy."

Sam flinched internally at the nickname. _Sammy_. Heard it spoken with Ruby's voice. He'd _let _her call him that, had let ….

But Dean's hand was under his bicep, helping him to his feet. Sam staggered up, finding his balance as his brother steadied him. Almost lost it again when Dean's hand fell away.

They made their way downstairs, and Sam entered the panic room ahead of Bobby and Dean. He didn't stop at the bed, but moved slowly all the way across the room, sinking down next to the far wall, cold iron hard against his back. The sharp pains seemed to have receded, but a queasiness, a dull ache lingered, and Sam drew his knees up gingerly, crossing his arms across his belly. He didn't look up until he heard the door clang shut.

"Holler if you need anything." Bobby's voice through the eye slot.

"Yeah." Dean's voice was as dull as Sam's had been. And on this side of the door. "We will."

It took a second for Sam to register that Dean was still in the room, and he watched, dazed, as Dean crossed to him, sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

"I'm sorry I didn't stay with you last time," Dean said softly. He leaned his head back against the wall. "I shouldn't have left you to go through that on your own."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, felt a tear edge out the corner. "It probably wouldn't have made a difference," he whispered.

"Maybe not," Dean acknowledged, and Sam could hear the pain in Dean's voice at the admission. "But you wouldn't have been alone."

Sam wiped his cheek against his shoulder, easing his legs out carefully to mirror Dean's posture next to him. Neither of them said anything for awhile.

"Dean?" Sam finally ventured.

But he didn't go any further. Hadn't really had anything to say, had just reached out verbally for his brother, once again without thinking, needing…

Dean didn't say anything. But in the lingering quiet, Dean shifted slightly, bumping into Sam, then settling so that they were sitting against each other—Dean's right side pressing along Sam's left, shoulder to knee.

_As long as I'm around, nothin' bad's going to happen to you._

And in the silence, Sam started to weep.

xxxx


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

_xxxx_

They stayed in the panic room almost four days.

The experience this time was nothing like it had been the week before, and Sam wasn't sure why. None of them were.

There'd been withdrawal, but the symptoms had been significantly less severe – mostly just nausea, the shakes. There'd been one aborted hallucination of Dean that had been stopped by his brother's actual presence beside him, hand on his knee, careful "Sam?" breaking through, dissipating the angry, hostile version of his brother scowling down at him.

The ache, the want, hadn't gone away completely, but Sam felt like he had a handle on it. And he'd told Dean as much. He wasn't going to hide or pretend any more.

When they'd made it through 24 hours of "normal," Dean had called for Bobby.

"Go take a shower, Sam," Dean said as the door swung open. "You stink."

Sam allowed his lips to twitch upward as he edged past his brother and Bobby. "You're not exactly a bouquet of roses yourself, man," he responded. The enforced time together had eased some of the awkwardness between them. Though nowhere near all of it.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered. "Go."

"Sam?" Bobby's voice forced Sam to make eye contact with the older man. He braced for whatever restriction or censure was coming. But Bobby just said, "I put clean clothes on you boys' beds this morning."

Swallowing heavily, Sam nodded. "Thanks," he managed.

"Yeah. Well. Don't get used to it. I ain't'cher maid."

Sam gave Bobby a brief smile and made his way slowly upstairs, aware of the low conversation following behind him. But he forced himself not to think about what was being said. Instead he gathered clothes and kit and towel. Turned on the water and stood under the spray, trying to keep his mind empty and not think about the "what next."

Bobby had kept them apprised of what was going on in the world while he and Dean had been confined. There'd been no indication that anyone had figured out that they were at Bobby's, and there didn't appear to be any big signs that something catastrophic had happened on Lucifer's release. Sam couldn't decide if that was something to worry about or just to be expected. Because if Sam had learned anything from his experience with Ruby it was that demons could be subtle. And that big gestures weren't necessarily the most effective means of drawing humans into demonic plans.

Sam dried off and got dressed. It felt surprisingly good simply to be clean again, and he felt a surge of gratefulness that had tears pricking at his eyes.

Sam pressed finger tips against closed lids, trying to stop from falling apart one more time. Over the last several days he'd wavered between the odd numbness he'd experienced directly after Lucifer's escape and an embarrassing fragility that had him ping-ponging between equally inappropriate reactions to whatever was happening around him.

But as much as Sam hated the emotional rollercoaster, it was making him realize how _little_ he'd actually felt over the last months. Even when Dean had suddenly been returned to him, he recognized now that his reaction had not been normal for him. Yes, there'd been an initial jolt of relief, joy, confusion. But it hadn't lasted. And what he'd settled into had been a cold annoyance that Dean was there to frustrate and question his plans. He'd told himself it was banked rage, held in check—controlled—emotions tamped down until he could execute revenge on Lilith.

But in reality it had been _nothing_.

Sam shuddered when he thought about the times he'd snuck out even in those first days and weeks of Dean's return, leaving his shattered, _alivealivealive_ brother alone and unprotected in whatever motel room they were staying in.

He'd told himself (and Ruby and Castiel) that Dean was weak, that his brother couldn't do what needed to be done. But Sam had felt no _compassion_ for that weakness. Only impatience and an awful kind of superiority that finally he would be the one who would be able to make things right. He'd used Dean's vulnerability as an excuse to justify his actions. But for all his telling himself he was protecting his brother, he'd never really _done_ that. Instead he had repeatedly left Dean on his own to deal with the fallout from his time in Hell in whatever way he could manage.

_Who was that person? _Sam wondered, in a haze. _That detached, uninvolved guy who had put an iPod in the Impala and sat through Indiana Jones and asked, with more curiosity than care, what Hell had been like?_

Whoever he _had_ been, Sam could see now that even from the beginning, his dealings with Ruby had been changing him, hardening him, preparing him. Even before he'd taken that final step off the cliff into drinking demon blood, he'd been altered by each of the "little" choices he'd made along the path Ruby had led him down.

Sam was terrified that there was no going back. That was what Dean had said, _there's no going back._

But in a strange way that fear, the despair that threatened at the thought of that being true, comforted Sam. Because maybe the fact that he _could _feel meant he was redeemable. That he wasn't beyond help, that he might still be capable of returning to at least some version of himself. Some form of "Sam" that his brother would forgive and trust and love again.

Sam had to admit that there was a tempting numbness in the blanket of _nothing_ that came over him from time to time now. He didn't want that, though. Sam knew he needed to figure out a way to function somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. But at the moment that particular life-skill was evading him completely.

"Sammy?"

Dean had entered the room and was rifling around his duffle for something, giving Sam a questioning look as he turned to shuffle through the stack of clothes Bobby had left on his bed.

"Don't call me that," Sam said without thinking.

Dean straightened in surprise, confusion on his face at the sharpness in Sam's tone.

"Ru- _she_ called me that," Sam explained hoarsely. _I gave her that. I let her…_ He cleared his throat. "Just. Don't. Please."

Dean's face went blank as Sam stammered out his explanation, uncertainty giving way to a flash of anger and then weary resignation before settling into unaffected. "Sure," Dean muttered. "Whatever."

Sam's heart hurt at the expression on his brother's face, knowing full well what that careful façade really meant—hurt and exhaustion and an unwillingness to engage, to fight. _Giving up_.

Dean turned to go, then stopped. He turned around.

"You know what?" Dean said evenly. "No."

Sam blinked.

Dean took a step forward, and Sam fell back slightly in spite of himself, startled.

"'Sammy' is mine," Dean said. "And she can't have it."

The air left Sam's lungs in a rush. "Dean," he whispered.

"No. I don't care what that skank called you. What you _let_ her call you when you were…" Dean broke off. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he struggled for control. "'Sammy' belongs to me," he went on. "And you don't get to give that away."

Sam could only stare.

"You got it?" Dean glowered.

Sam swallowed. "Yeah," he managed.

"Good," Dean snapped and stomped out.

xxxx

After Dean was gone, Sam sat down on the bed struggling to figure out what was going on with his brother. They hadn't spoken much in the panic room beyond surfacey checking-in kinds of questions or comments, testing things between themselves, trying to get their bearings with one another again. And they definitely hadn't touched on the specifics of what had happened either between them or with Ruby. But the discrepancy between the message Dean had left on Sam's voicemail just days before and how Dean was currently treating him continued to unsettle Sam, leaving him on edge and confused.

Sam had heard the anger and the bitterness in that call. The determination in Dean's "You're a monster" and "There's no going back."

Where was that now? That harsh bite of rage and contempt?

In the last several days there had only been careful wariness and a detached, but strangely gentle, solicitousness. The lack of any kind of recrimination from Dean in light of that last message was incredibly unsettling.

Sam got up, casting around for the jeans he'd shed in preparation for his shower. When he found them where they'd been dropped in the corner, he patted the denim down in a search for his phone. Finding it in his front pocket, he pulled it out. Sam bit his lip, staring down at the innocent-seeming gadget. Finally, he pushed the appropriate button and put the phone to his ear.

"First saved message."

Sam closed his eyes, bracing for what was coming.

The beep sounded, and then there was a moment of dead air. "Hey, it's m-me." Dean's voice came across gruffly and hesitantly. "Uh," Dean cleared his throat, "Look I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed. And I owe you a serious beat-down… but…." There was a long pause. "I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm not Dad." There was another silence. "We're brothers, you know, we're family and, uh, no matter how bad it gets that doesn't change." Beat. "Sammy, I'm sor—" The message ended.

Sam couldn't breathe.

He listened to the message again.

_Hey, it's m-me…_

Dazedly, he checked the information on the message. Date and time matched with when he'd gotten the message notification. He listened again.

_Hey, …_

"You miss a lot of calls over the last few days?" Dean asked. Careful tease, testing. He had his jeans on, but no shirt, towel around his shoulders. "Sam?" The tone changed when he noticed his brother's face.

Wordlessly Sam held the phone out. With a frown Dean took it, putting it to his ear. His eyes went swiftly to Sam when the message started. He lowered his hand slowly when it was over.

"Sam?" he asked again.

"Is that…?" Sam could barely speak around the sand in his throat. "Is that… you? Did you… leave that? For me. After?" Sam wasn't sure he was making much sense.

Extending the phone back to Sam, Dean nodded, watching closely. "Yeah."

Numbly, Sam nodded. "Oh."

"Sam?" Dean prodded when Sam didn't say anything else.

Sam shook himself. "I just… That's not… That's not what I heard when I … listened … the first time."

Sam closed his eyes.

"I was having second thoughts. After our fight. After…" _I almost killed you. After I choked you and told you you didn't know me…_ "And I… I got the message and I… wanted … to listen… to…" _hear your voice, to see if you were calling to make up, like you always do, like you've always done, taking the first step to make things better, to…_ "But I was afraid…" _that this time it was too much, that you were going to…_

"Ruby told me to listen." _What are you, a 12-year-old girl? Just play it already._ Sam rubbed a hand over his eyes and down his face. "God, I've been such a moron." He sat back down on the end of his bed.

She'd pressed every button he had when she came at him the second time after Dean had died. She'd implemented a strategy that had taken into account every fear and insecurity he'd ever had. This time she hadn't questioned his intelligence or his morals, but had played to them. Had let him think he was in charge, talked sympathetically about Dean, told Sam he was special, the only one… She'd given him the feeling that he was in control, had talked about the greater "good," said he was being self-sacrificing—protecting Dean and the world…. Given him a taste of power that had…. He shuddered. Even now he wanted it.

"What did you hear?" Dean's question broke into Sam's thoughts. He was seated on the end of his own bed.

Sam studied his clasped hands.

"Sammy."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, wiping in frustration at the wetness that escaped. "You…" Shook his head. _No, not Dean_. "The message… It said you were done trying to save me. That I wasn't me anymore and that there was no going back."

He looked up at Dean. "And when I thought…."

Dean nodded when Sam didn't finish. "That was when you went ahead," he said.

"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Ruby must've screwed with the message. God, Dean…."

"Maybe," Dean said quietly. "Or the angels…"

Sam looked at Dean in surprise.

"Zachariah said they wanted you to kill Lilith and break the last seal." He paused. "I got enough of a signal that I could call and leave that message. But I couldn't ever get another one. Maybe they let me make the call so they could change it…" He shrugged.

"Dean…"

"Don't, Sam, OK? Let's…" He trailed off, not looking at Sam, not looking at anything.

Sam thought he'd never seen Dean look so defeated. And he realized he'd spent most of his life watching his brother be beaten down in one way or another. Hell hadn't changed that. It had only accelerated the process. And done it so well that it had taken Dean longer than Sam was used to to get on his feet again. Hell hadn't made Dean weak, hadn't defeated him. It had just taken so much out of him he hadn't been able to fake it with Sam the way he usually did. At least, not successfully.

"Dean," Sam tried again.

"Sam," Dean interrupted him again.

No," Sam said. He needed to do this. Dean needed to hear this. "Please let me say this, OK? I won't say it again. I promise." Even with that Sam could tell that Dean didn't want to hear it. So he pulled out the big guns. "I need to do this."

Dean's shoulders bowed in acceptance. "Fine," he huffed

Sam drew in a breath, gathering himself. "I'm sorry," he said, felt an unexpected confidence in doing this. "Not just for… the Lucifer thing. But for the way things have been between us… since you got back. I'm sorry for everything I said…." In spite himself, Sam's voice trembled. "You're the strongest person I know, and you know me better than anyone ever has or ever will." He continued his examination of his hands. "I missed you so much when you died." He paused. Then whispered, "And I was so _mad_. That you'd brought me back and then left me. That you'd managed to save me, and I couldn't do the same thing for you. I… When I hooked up with Ruby I thought it was the only way to… show that, to get revenge for what Lilith had done to you. I knew… I knew I had compromised… _everything_, everything you had ever taught me or stood for, but I… I didn't care. I just wanted her dead." He cleared his throat. "But then. Then you showed up. And you were alive and an _angel _had raised you up for some purpose _God_ had for you. While I'd been working with a demon," he said bitterly. "And I couldn't…. I just couldn't admit that I'd screwed up. I wanted to be _right_. For once, I wanted to be the one who knew what he was doing, who could _fix_ something. Not the stupid little brother who wasn't ever good enough."

"Sammy."

But Sam was on a roll, and he wasn't going to stop. He shook his head, plowing on, "More than anything I'm sorry I chose her over you. That I was so _stupid_…"

"Stop." Dean's bark cut straight into Sam's rambling , desperate apology. He stood abruptly, pacing away from their beds.

"No, Dean, please. I need…," Sam realized suddenly that he was shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Stop," Dean own desperation bled through his voice.

But Sam couldn't. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm…" Sam could hear the words falling out of his mouth, but was helpless to halt the outpouring of remorse and regret. He grabbed at his knees, fingers curling and uncurling in rhythm with his body as he rocked back and forth. "I'm sorry…."

Suddenly Dean was crouched in front of him, hands on top of Sam's, gripping hard, stopping the convulsive clutching.

"Sammy, stop. It's OK, it's OK."

Sam was still shaking his head in denial. "I…"

"Sam. Stop." One of Dean's hands came off Sam's knee and took hold of his chin, stilling the back and forth motion. "Stop."

Sam couldn't disobey.

"Look at me," Dean went on.

Sam opened his eyes, lips parting to speak.

"Don't," Dean said firmly, giving Sam a quick shake. "Listen to me, OK? Sam, I need you to listen to me." His voice was gentle, but implacable, and Sam nodded as best he could in Dean's tight grip.

"Good." Carefully, watching his brother closely, Dean released Sam's chin and rested his palm lightly on Sam's knee. He drew in a shuddering breath and cleared his throat. "I forgive you, Sam. I do."

Sam felt more damn tears start down his cheeks. It couldn't be that easy. It couldn't. He started to apologize again. Just to make….

"No," Dean said. "You said you were sorry. I said I forgive you. We're done." He gave his brother a mock-stern stare. "You got it?"

Sam blinked wearily, still unsure. But he nodded. Because that was what Dean seemed to want.

Dean gave a sigh that was pure relief. "Good. Now it's my turn."

And Sam started to shake his head. _No._

Dean's fingers gripped Sam's face again. _Yes._

"Sam, you got to say what you wanted to say. Let me say what I need to say," Dean said quietly.

Eyes on his brother's, Sam nodded his agreement.

Dean let him go. He unfolded slowly from his crouch on the floor, groaning somewhat melodramatically when his knees cracked, and sat down next to Sam on the bed.

"I'm sorry, too," he offered softly. "I'm sorry that I left you, that I put you in the position I did. I'm sorry that when I got back I was so caught up in my own crap that all I could do was yell at you and hit you when you wouldn't do what I wanted you to do."

"Dean…"

"Don't, Sam. OK? I just… I don't want to play some messed up game of "Who fucked up more," with you, alright? We both had our part in what went down," he said heavily. "I forgave you." He turned and looked at Sam. There was a sadness and a longing in Dean's eyes that cut Sam to the quick. "Will you forgive me?"

Swallowing, Sam nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah."

Dean sniffed and wiped his face against his shoulder. "OK," he said hoarsely. Nodded. "OK."

After a minute, Dean stood, reaching out a hand to grip Sam's shoulder firmly, slid it down to rest on his brother's arm.

"Well, I guess since the two of us bookended those goddamn seals, maybe we should go see what we can do about fixing this whole apocalypse thing."

Sam looked up at his brother, the solidity of Dean's hand warm against his bicep, the steadiness in Dean's quick smile warm against his heart. He stood.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Maybe we should."

_End._

xxxx


End file.
